


I Can Finally See

by RuleBreakingMormon



Series: New At This.... [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BTW, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, My First Fanfic, Please Don't Hurt Me, Post Reichenbach, Smut, Surprise! - Freeform, i dont even, m/m - Freeform, neko, yaymoretags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:02:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuleBreakingMormon/pseuds/RuleBreakingMormon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson hadn't spoken more than a two-word sentence since Sherlock Holmes flew.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or the one where I have no idea what the f*** I'm doing. HALP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Can Finally See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the title babe:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got a request, and took the time to fill it cuz im an asshole. sigh.....LETS DO THIS.

John Watson hadn't spoken more than a two-word sentence since Sherlock Holmes flew. He avoided eye contact, eyes always to the ground, and he absolutely did not allow any form of physical contact whatsoever. In the first few months of his mourning, his therapist had tried to console John by patting his shoulder when he'd been reduced to tears. John had broken her mahogany desk and two four-story windows. Mycroft paid for the damage, of course. 

Mycroft had actually become an essential part of John's life. He came to the flat as often as possible, giving John Sherlock's familial scent and cold attitude; giving him familiarity. They eventually became acquaintances. Not friends, not strangers, but awkward, sharing-a-grief, acquaintances. Mycroft didn't whole-heartedly agree to these outings to 221B, but he would never admit that he found it quite nice to smell Sherlock's infuriating scent, stand in his clutter (which John never cleaned up, as if he were a guest in Sherlock's home), and gain some minimal amount of strength from Doctor Watson by soaking in his silent presence. Anthea never judged him for this. 

Lestrade had swallowed a bottle of vodka, after the fall, nearly killing himself, before throwing out alcohol entirely. He sobered up quickly and focused all his energy on his cases, just as Sherlock would. If Donovan and Anderson seemed a bit kinder towards him, offering silent condolences, nobody said a thing. 

Mrs. Hudson and Molly spoke to each other constantly. John didn't see either of them cry, but heard it every time Molly came to visit Mrs. Hudson in 221A.

Irene Adler did nothing, but sent John a bouquet of forget-me-nots. John hadn't left the flat for two days afterward. 

News-wise, Moriarty was erased. Richard Brooke was the victim of blackmail, hired by Sherlock Holmes to show of his so-called "genius". Homles then forced Brooke to the roof of St. Bart's and committed a murder-suicide. The Press was on the story 24/7 for the next few weeks, but the excitement died out quickly, and only once-in-a-while did John ever hear about the case on the news. 

John was pushed-no, shoved into yet another boring existence. He couldn't go to crime scenes with Lestrade, seeing as how he wasn't a professional crime scene investigator. He lived on the DL; being Sherlock's flatmate had made him his own little nook in the news, but the attention on him died long before the attention on Sherlock had. Still, he didn't want to be in anyone's focus right now. So, John lived a boring life. Wake, work (at the local clinic), home, tea, telly, blog, sleep. And he loathed every minute of it. 

It lacked Sherlock's sarcasm and dry humor. It lacked the adrenaline and chases. It lacked the blood pounding in his ears when he looked at Sherlock and it lacked the hair raising on the back of his neck when Sherlock looked at him. It even lacked the take-out; John hadn't had any desire for thai food, or going to Angelo's. The last time he went to the restaurant, Angelo had given him a sad look and put a candle on the table. 

John eventually cleaned out the entire kitchen of Sherlock's experiments, no longer able to stand the smell. He cleaned every flask, beaker, and petri dish, and organized them in the kitchen cupboards. 

Now John sat n Sherlock's green chair, knees drawn up to his chest, tail hanging limply over the edge, staring blankly at the smiley face Sherlock had shot. His tawny ears drooped. The telly was on, but John wasn't listening. He was in his own world, his own.....mind palace. Cold tea sat on the table next to him, the mug now stained because it had been sitting there for so long. 

Suddenly, John heard a tapping sound, and fell over himself trying to grab the gun that lay beneath the chair. As soon as he got up to see the intruder, however, he sighed from relief. He straightened himself out, then sat down across from Mycroft and stared at his tie. He'd probably been sitting there for hours, just waiting for John. 

"Good to finally have you with us," Mycroft greeted.


	2. That You're Right Here Beside Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Mycroft likes his nose, he should learn not to poke it into other people's business. But he's never been good at that, has he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things went screwy, and I had to retype the first chapter. FINALLY on numero dos, but I'm not feeling very up to it. Maybe a longer chapter. Sigh....LET'S DO THIS.

"Good to finally have you with us," Mycroft greeted. John huffed in response. 

"Would you like some fresh tea, John?" Mycroft asked as he took a sip of his own steaming cup. _Helped himself to the tea again, I see_ John thought to himself. Instead of answering, John got up and fixed his own cup, putting the used mug in the sink.

"I'd like you to know that I came for an actual reason this time, John," Mycroft began when John sat down. John's eyebrows rose and Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I come to act as a concerned party once again. 

"John, when was your last heat?" John nearly chocked on his tea and he set it down quickly, gasping for air. 

"Personal, innit?" He said when he finally acquired the art of breathing.

"Indeed, but I worry for you health. It's been, what, a year? More? Since your last heat?" John glared at Mycroft. 

"You know, then." 

"Roughly." was the response he got. It _had_ been an unnaturally long time. John's last heat had been a week and a half before Sherlock's fall, and because of the grief and stress he went through afterwards, he hadn't been able to go through another. Usually, a single omega gets right back on the ball when an alpha they know dies around them, becoming more hurried in the attempt to find a mate. If an omega doesn't go back in heat, it almost always meant......

"You think..." John didn't finish but Mycroft's head slowly lowered. 

"If you were," he stated slowly, "then you might never go through a heat again. And you know that this occurrence will dramatically decrease your life-span." John's eyes squinted.

"Why do you care?" John asked suspiciously. Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly.

"You happen to have some...credentials that my superiors are interested in. Wouldn't do us a bit of good seeing you drop, would it John?" John's mood immediately dropped. 

"Get. Out."

"John, really, I'm only looking out for what's-"

"If you say 'what's best for me", I will literally have to punch you. Get out Mycroft. You are no longer welcome here. Ever." John's voice had gone hoarse slightly at the end of his threat, but he made damn sure that Mycroft got the message.

"Very well. Just remember, John: I am in a position in which I can get you what you need. And you need help." John growled, actually pulling Mycroft out of his seat before he got up and pushing him out the door. John stared at the door for a minute before tuning around and sliding down the wood. There, he curled into a ball, and cried. 

Not only had Sherlock abandoned him, but had scented him as a True Mate and sentenced him to death. John had only ever heard stories about True Mates. People who were so perfect for each other genetically, socially, mentally, that they practically bonded upon sight. And John had spent months _living_ with Sherlock. How had he not noticed? Even when Sherlock had died, he felt very few changes in himself. When a True Mate died, the other soon followed, most of the time because of natural causes. Their body starts to break down, unable to handle itself without the other's pheromones and hormones. How had John survived so far? Was it him living in Sherlock's flat? Was it the fact that he now slept in Sherlock's room? Was Sherlock...??

John dare not finish that thought. Of course Sherlock was dead. He saw for himself, did he not? The memory of Sherlock's broken body, limp in his arms, was the heavy weight on John's heart; that constant reminder of where Sherlock really was: six feet under with a slab of stone to mark his place among hundreds. John truly was alone again. But he couldn't find himself to care. He was without his.......his _True Mate_. He forced himself to think it. Death was coming for him, and, with vary little reluctance, John would go with it.

 

~"_"~

 

Memories flashing:

\--Blood-matted fur. Black on ebony black.--

\--Dirt flying into a tear-streaked face--

\--Fear--

\--Empty. Why? Why so empty?--

\--No, not empty--

\--There, again, the dreaded flash, closer this time--

\--Hands that don't belong to anyone--

\--Ringing. There is nothing but that piercing ringing now--

\--Not empty, just missing pieces--

\--Black on ebony black--

Sherlock woke with a start, immediately pushing himself into a sitting position. Sweat matted and glued his bangs to his forehead. He was breathing heavily, pale chest heaving, searching for air. 

He'd been having the same nightmare ever since he left London. He still had not become used to having it.

_It's dark. It always is. But there are always flashes of light, showing millisecond pictures. The first is (never failing) John, smiling, laughing, praising. Darkness. Now he holds a swaddled pup, looking at it with tears in his eyes. Never before has he looked so beautiful. Darkness. John holds a mass of bloody blankets, the same ones, that only seconds ago, held their child. Darkness. John jolts toward him, a bullet striking his spine. Darkness. John at his feet, as pale as the tiny lifeless body next to him. It pauses here. Sherlock screams, dropping to his knees, pulling John's upper body onto his lap._

_"Sher-"_

_"Shh, don't say a word, I'll take care of you, I'll be your alpha, I'll be there-" Darkness._

_"You don't deserve him," a black silk voice says from behind. Sherlock spins to find Moriarty holding the bundles, clean again._

_"YOU LET THEM GO-" Sherlock starts, but is again interrupted by darkness. He's in 221B, but it's completely empty._

_"He moved out years ago, darling," Mrs. Hudson says. "He said that if you ever return, to tell you that he hates you. That you should have stayed dead, that-"_

_"NO! NO! N-" Sherlock claps his hands over his ears but he can still hear her._

_"You don't deserve him," Her voice steadily becomes more Moriarty, until he's standing there in front of him. "You couldn't even die right Sherlock. Why do you think John would want a freak like you?"_

_"YOU'RE CHEATING!!" Sherlock yells. "WE HAD RULES! YOU'RE CHEATING!" Moriarty walks up to him, and pushes his chest. He starts falling backward, but he never hits the floor. He's just falling and fal-_

Sherlock shudders at the memory. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to wipe away any trance of the dream. He won't be getting any more sleep tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> The titles of my stories will be Owl City lyrics. No h8.
> 
> I will not be adding the whole 'society background' thing, but if you do want it, please notify me, and I will post it.


End file.
